


Hasty Words

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft Stuff [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings of guilt, Fights, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Making Up, Misunderstandings, Relationship(s), Upset John, Upset Sherlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 16:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6291736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have a fight. In the heat of anger, John storms from the flat. Being new to the whole "relationship" thing, Sherlock thinks that it's all over and that John has left him for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Misconception

John's eye twitched and he worked his left hand open and closed several times as he breathed heavily through his nose. "You know what. That's it. I've had enough!" He stalked over and grabbed his coat, pulling it on and zipping it with fast, abrupt motions. "I can't be here anymore!" With that, he stormed out of the flat.

Sherlock watched him go with a frown, he stared at the slammed door as footsteps stomped down the stairs. Then he walked to the window, watching the doctor march off up the street.

"Bollocks," he hissed.

The flat suddenly felt empty and cold without John, no longer like home, more like a prison. The detective threw himself down in John's chair and pulled his knees up to his chest. He wrapped his dressing gown around his knees, holding them tightly. He buried his head into the top of them. Why did he have to screw everything up? Every time!

He didn't have a built in filter on his mouth like other people did, he never had, hateful things just spewed from between his lips. The number of people he had alienated over the years was astronomical, but it had never mattered, not before John. He couldn't believe he was actually about to cry. He shook his head, shaking away his tears. He didn't know what to do and he didn't like not knowing. Mycroft would know, Mycroft, somehow always knew.

But he wouldn't go to him, that's not what Holmeses did. They didn't ask for help. They didn't need it. He squeezed his legs even tighter, stopping himself from moving across the room to pick up his violin. If he was to play it, it would just be screeching. John didn't like screeching.

John didn't like him shooting the walls, either. If Sherlock had had the doctor's service pistol, he would have shot it anyway, only not at the walls. He would have taken his frustration out on the items lying about the flat.

Sherlock threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, looking for inspiration there. He needed to find a way to bring John home, but he was convinced there was nothing to be done, not this time. If John was gone for good he doubted he'd be as stupid as to come back for his stuff, he'd send removal men so that option was cut off, unless he hid all of John's stuff.

* * *

A mile away a black sedan pulled up next to the doctor. He rolled his eyes.

"Piss off, Mycroft."

The window rolled down. "How delightful. But I'm afraid I can't. I require my brother’s assistance in a life or death case and therefore I need you."

"Really?" John's voice dripped with scepticism.

Mycroft, voice flat and cool, came back with, "You can either pretend to believe my pretence, or I can have my men bundle you into the car."

John looked around and identified three of the government official's henchmen at various points on the pathway. There were probably more. "Fine." He climbed into the car and slammed the door.

"Ever so charming as always, my brother has been rubbing off on you."

"That's not the only thing your brother has been doing."

"Do I sense an altercation?"

"Not at all," John grumbled. "I just love walking to nowhere at 7am for no apparent reason in the middle of January."

"Ah, sarcasm. How delightful." Mycroft shifted the umbrella that leant against the seat. "What was it this time? Microwaved spleen? Exploding eyeballs? Or did he simply catch the flat on fire again?"

The doctor shrugged, choosing not to answer.

He'd walked out of the flat to get away from Sherlock and then his brother turns up and technically blackmails him into going back. He didn't know what he did to deserve one Holmes in his life, but two?

"What's the point of this, really?" John looked determinedly out the window. "Have you been bugging the flat again? Are you here to fix everything for your baby brother?" He made a fist. "It doesn't work that way."

"I couldn't care less about such trivialities. Sherlock will do whatever he wants, I realised a long time ago I can't do anything to stop that. But no, I really do need his help."

The car pulled up to the kerb. John flung the door open and stepped out. He stood there on the pathway with his hands shoved in his pockets.

Mycroft stopped on the steps to 221 and straightened the knocker. "Do come along, John."

Rolling his eyes, the doctor followed the older man into the flat. He made each step look like it was painful and heard a "what do you want Mycroft?!" yelled before the government official had even opened the door.

John debated just going up to his old room, but knew that wouldn't work. He braced himself and stepped back into the flat. Sherlock and Mycroft were locked in a battle of glares. The doctor chose to ignore them both and made himself a lone cup of tea.

"You've brought John," Sherlock pointed out obviously. "Why?"

"Because I require your help and you are an arse if you don't have your handler by your side."

"I don't require a handler and even if I did, John wouldn't want any part of it. I'm apparently an impossible, asinine, arrogant, self-centred, insufferable prick with delusions of humanity."

The doctor flinched, but didn't contradict his boyfriend. He was still too furious with the man to feel the guilt that would no doubt hit him later.

"That may be so, but that doesn't mean you can avoid this."

Sherlock sighed. "I'll do whatever you want. It's not like I have a case on. Just leave John out of it."

"Yes, Mycroft, do leave me out of it. It's not like he ever listens to me anyway." John's tone was particularly bitter. "You know what? I don't even want to hear this." He turned and stomped upstairs, deciding Mycroft could damned well drag him from his old room if he wanted him that badly.

Sherlock didn't watch him go, but Mycroft did, a slight frown flickering across his face. "You really have angered him haven't you, little brother?"

Sherlock flopped back in his chair, his entire body going boneless with defeat. "Just tell me what you need me to do. He'll be happy having me out of the flat for a few days. It'll give him time to pack and leave."

"Is there something you want to talk about, baby brother?"

Sherlock looked up, almost as if he wanted to. He shook his head. "What's this case then?"

Not for the first time, Mycroft resisted the urge to throttle his brother and sat down in the chair opposite him. "It's a delicate matter, brother-mine. If you insist on investigating without John, please don't involve anyone else. The exceptions, of course, being myself or Gregory." At Sherlock's brief nod of acknowledgement, he outlined the case.

From upstairs John heard Mycroft's order of "Get in the car, Sherlock." And listened as the brothers left, Sherlock rather quiet with no complaining. What were they doing? He reminded himself that he didn't care. He needed a break from the enormous git, and this would give him one. By the time Sherlock came back, the doctor would have managed to calm himself, they could have a reasonable talk about the situation and then they could put the whole thing behind them. Still, he couldn't help but worry, because, damn it, he did care.

* * *

"Are you not going to ask where we are going, Sherlock?"

He looked at his brother in the reflection of the window. "No. Why does it matter?"

"Because…" Mycroft decided to test a theory. "I could be taking you to your death and you don't seem to care."

Sherlock shrugged.

Well, hell, Mycroft swore inwardly. Whatever had happened between his brother and John was worse than he had thought. Unfortunately, he needed Sherlock on this case. It looked like he'd be forced to keep close surveillance on his brother during the investigation lest he let himself get hurt from indifference.

They pulled up, their destination; the Yard.

"Why is Lestrade involved?" Sherlock's voice was annoyingly quiet.

"Because we need his help."

"We don't need his help. How can he help anyway? He'll just slow me down."

"No, he'll be there to make sure you don't get yourself killed. And Gregory is smarter than you give him credit for."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He knew Lestrade wasn't really an idiot. He didn't need his brother to tell him that. "I told you before, I don't need a keeper. If I don't need John, I don't need him."

"You do need John but seeing as you've pissed him off you can have Gregory instead."

Sherlock climbed reluctantly from the car. He trailed behind his brother like a chastened child, his gaze downcast.

Most officers disappeared at the first glimpse of Mycroft. Even Donovan had learned that the government official wasn't a man to be antagonised and made herself scarce upon seeing him.

"Gregory," Mycroft said, his voice going warm as he stepped through the door of the DI's office.

He looked up and noticed his boyfriend. He grinned, then frowned even as he wrapped his arms around the older Holmes.

"No John?"

Sherlock pivoted on his heel and started to walk away from Greg's office, but the DI snagged him by the sleeve of his coat. "What's going on?" The detective tried to glare him down, but Lestrade had long since become immune.

"John won't be around for cases anymore."

The DI looked up at Mycroft. "He can't be serious!"

Mycroft was staring at his little brother. "He seems to think so."

Greg shook his head. "Then he is an idiot." At the look on Mycroft's face, he clarified, "Not John. It's Sherlock that's the idiot.

"Shut it, Gavin!" Sherlock said with spite. "You don't know anything." His voice quieted. "Anything."

"'Lock! I don't care how bad you feel, you will be polite to Gregory."

"It's fine, Mycroft." The DI placed a hand on his boyfriend's arm. "I know when he's talking shit and when he means it."

"Do you know what? You can screw this whole case," Sherlock decided on the spot. He turned and stormed from the DI's office.

"Well. Damn." Greg scratched the back of his head. "Now what?"

Mycroft sighed. "My men will intercept him before he can make a disappearance. But, Gregory, I won't be able to get through to him. You know that anything I say is taken as manipulation."

"Yeah, and I'm just an extension of you in this case. I don't know, normally, I'd go to John when Sherlock's in a strop, but..."

"Quite. We need his help with this."

"Unless you fancy leg work."

"Not a chance."

It was then the door opened and two of Mycroft's minions were dragging in a dejected detective.

Sherlock let himself be shown to a seat and dropped into it. His entire manner indicated dejection.

"Excuse us, gentlemen," Mycroft said as he ushered his minions from the office. He closed the door and leant back against it. "Really, baby brother, do stop being so childish. I need your help on this and I will have it. Now, unless you're reconsidered involving John..."

"There's no point, he wouldn't come."

Mycroft resumed smoothly, "Then you need to work with Gregory."

The younger Holmes sighed. "Fine."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No further arguments, little brother?"

He shook his head, staring at his shoes.

Mycroft sighed and then routed through one of the DI's filing cabinets. He pulled out a file and dumped it in his brother's lap.

Sherlock flipped through the file in a listless manner, every detail impressing itself in his mind despite his lack of enthusiasm for the case. He tossed the file towards Greg's desk, missing completely. "Surely your people could handle this, brother dear. I don't see why you need me."

"It's a matter of trust, Sherlock. You know how I feel about most of my operatives."

Sherlock sighed, but nodded. He'd rather be out of the flat, out of John's way.

"What are we waiting for then?" The detective kicked the chair back and stood by the door. "If I go out, am I going to be treated like a monkey?" He asked of his brother.

Mycroft's eyebrow climbed towards his receding hairline. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll be given all the leeway you need to pursue the investigation."

"Oh, joy. Oh rapture." Sherlock opened the door. "Well, come along, Lestrade."

Mycroft grabbed his boyfriend by the arm. "Stop by the car. Anthea will have the proper armament for you."

Mycroft couldn't help but think that this was not the reaction of his brother that he usually got. It was either, 'No, piss off!' Or he got excited. This was just a rejected mashup of both. Mycroft watched his boyfriend follow his brother, he couldn't work out if this Sherlock would be a better one for him to work with or not.

If he had asked, Greg would have told him that it was anything but a better version of Sherlock. He could practically feel a sense of apathy radiating from the man. Lestrade's phone pinged. He pulled it out and read the message. It was an invitation to meet John at the pub to 'talk', despite the time of the morning. He sent off a hasty reply that he was busy. The whole time, he swore under his breath, wishing he could meet the doctor and find out what the hell was going on.

He would try to get details from the detective, but the way he just sat and stared out of the window, he used his own powers of deduction to safely assume Sherlock wouldn't be in the mood for a feelings talk; like he ever was.

The cab ride was painfully silent. There was a time when Greg would have been grateful for the detective's silence. Not now. "So, where are we going?"

Sherlock kept staring out the window. "Suspect. Interview." He shrugged.

"You expecting it to be a long case?"

Sherlock nodded with a deep, heartfelt sigh. "Boring. Pointless."

Greg looked over at him and frowned, it never used to bother him quite as much when Sherlock was so… not Sherlock but now he found himself actually feeling kind of sorry for him.

The car pulled up in a less than pristine part of London and they got out.

Greg watched, warily, as they approached an old dilapidated building. "Surely this isn't the kind of place the agent would hide?"

"It's not as run down as it appears, I'm sure. It's probably got some very nice upgrades on the inside."

Before either had a chance to reach the door, a guy came barrelling out, he knocked Greg to the ground and charged off.

One day, not so long ago, Sherlock would have paused to think of the consequences and John's brilliant grin when he didn't charge off into trouble, but now… now there was no John so there was no point in caring. He took off after this new suspect, not looking back.

Sherlock rounded a corner only to come up against a fence. He scaled it quickly, then resumed his pursuit of the fleeing man. All at once, he found himself at a dead end, face to barrel with a loaded gun. Before he could react, the man fired. Sherlock went down hard, his head hitting the tarmac with a muted thud.


	2. Resolution

The DI had no idea when he had lost track of everything so quickly. It had been such a dramatic turn in events. Sherlock had been there and then Greg was on the floor. He blacked out a moment and when he came to, the detective was gone.

Greg climbed unsteadily to his feet and gave chase in the direction he knew Sherlock had gone. Why couldn't he have just waited?! The DI had reached a fence when he heard it. A single gun shot.

Greg's heart rose into his throat and he scaled the fence, swearing. When his feet hit the ground, he was off at full speed. He only stopped when he saw Sherlock's Belstaff clad body on the ground. And blood. Too much damned blood. "Sherlock!" he yelled as he pulled out his phone and dialled 999. After that, he dialled Mycroft.

* * *

Mycroft was still at the Yard when his phone rang, "Gregory, you can't be in trouble alrea-"

"Mycroft, shut up and listen. Your brother's been shot."

Mycroft's hand started shaking, but that was the only external sign of his distress. "Where... where are they taking him?"

Greg gave him the name of the hospital. "And Mycroft, call John."

"Yes, of course. I'll have someone pick him up as well."

* * *

Sherlock woke up feeling incredibly groggy. His eyes flickered open just a crack and he found his brother watching over him, his face as white as his own felt.

"'Lock," Mycroft sighed, his relief plain to see.

It was then Sherlock realised his hand was being held. It more than surprised him that Mycroft didn't seem embarrassed and didn't pull away, he just held it tighter. Sherlock squeezed it back slightly, summoning what little strength he had.

One thing he never expected was for his head tilt to the other side and him to spot John. He also didn't anticipate the flinch the other man gave.

The doctor swallowed, then looked away. He shifted side to side, wanting to go to Sherlock's side, but afraid of his reception. "I... God. I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

Sherlock closed his eyes and then stared at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and looked back at his brother. "What happened?" He croaked.

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. "You got shot."

Sherlock sent him a scathing look, well… at least attempted to. "How clarifying."

The doctor took a step forward. "You don't remember?" His voice was full of concern. "That could be the concussion. I should have been there."

"Why? And why are you here?" Sherlock looked away. "You said you were done with me. You were moving out. Don't feel obligated to be here just because I was stupid enough to get shot."

John frowned down at him. "Sherlock, I-"

"You what? Suddenly feel guilty for some reason? It was my fault. I pissed you off so you shouted at me, now leave."

He suddenly turned to the side, and Mycroft had one of those cardboard trays ready as he was sick. The government official placed the tray in his brother's free hand and helped him to stay upright with one of his own and used the other to rub at his back.

John stood there, feeling as if he had been slapped. He looked at Mycroft, hoping for some clue as to what to do or say. Nothing was forthcoming. "Fine. If that's what you really want." His vision seemed to swim as he staggered from the room. He collapsed into one of the chairs in time for Greg to appear with the doctor he had run for when Sherlock was showing signs of regaining consciousness.

The DI paused by the blond, a questioning look on his face. "John, what are you doing out here?"

"He kicked me out." John ran his hands over his face. "I think..." His brow furrowed as he thought, recalling Sherlock's words. He stood and paced for a moment. "He believes I am moving out. He actually thinks I said it!" John whirled about and took a step back towards the room. Then stopped himself. "I can't… I don't… he could have died Greg… he still might… I made him think I didn't want him. We rowed, but I never paused to think of what it would do to him. He's got no experience with this kind of crap… What the hell have I done?" He fell back into the plastic seat and dropped his head in his hands, in a mild attempt to hide his tears.

Greg sat down beside him. "Listen. If you two were normal blokes, you would have stormed off, had a chance to cool down and gone back to the flat and talked."

"But..."

"No. It's not your fault that shit happens. It's not his fault either. But you're right about one thing, he's never had experience with this. If he had, he wouldn't have panicked. It's up to you to show him how this works. So get off your arse and get back in there."

John's head jerked up as the doctor ran from the room, the tail end of Sherlock's raspy shouts chasing her out. Mycroft quickly followed.

"It seems waking up in hospital hasn't done my brother's mood any good. He's still as dejected as he was when I picked him up," the elder Holmes observed.

"Mycroft, I didn't mean-"

"Shut it, John," Greg interrupted pointing his finger at his own boyfriend. "This isn't all down to him."

Mycroft's eyes widened marginally.

"You knew exactly what mental state your brother was in and you recruited him anyway. And, God help me, I didn't say anything to stop you." Greg lurched to his feet. "So, I think there's more than enough blame to go around. Get out of the way and let John go in there."

Mycroft stepped aside and John quietly pushed the door open. Sherlock was twisted to face the other way his shoulder looking awfully swollen in its sling.

"Whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear it. Getting shot is enough, thank you." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Too damned bad. You're going to listen." John sat by the bed. "The first thing I'm going to say is this: I love you. That hasn't changed and never will."

The detective glanced at him, but didn't say anything.

"The next thing I'm going to say is that I never intended to move out of the flat. I was angry and needed to cool off. And finally, those things I said to you... You don't masquerade as human. You are human. You are the most wonderful, amazing person I've ever known and I only hope that someday you forgive me." John stood awkwardly. "So... Well."

John was not standing as awkwardly as what Sherlock felt. He looked up at the doctor again, his features far paler than either of them were used to. "That's it?"

The small hope that John had felt fled, his face showing his disappointment. "Yeah. I guess it's too little too late." He reached out towards Sherlock in an abortive gesture. "Please... just..." It was abruptly too much and he crumbled, a great sob finding its way out. "Be careful. I won't be able to take it if I find out someone's killed you." Tears were streaming down his face, but he didn't care. John turned to leave the room.

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock croaked out. "You're not going to shout at me for being an idiot? For running into trouble, despite the amount of times you've told me not to…" Sherlock winced in pain, his head pressed into the pillows as the monitors began flashing.

John was instantly by his side. "Shh, shh. Calm down. I'm not going to yell. I just want you to be okay."

Sherlock reached out and snagged his hand.

Two doctors rushed in even as John was fiddling with the machines.

"Um, excused me, Sir, but don't fiddle with the equipment."

Mycroft wasn't far behind the doctors, his coffee ditched when he had seen the commotion around his brother. "Sherlock?" He asked in concern. His brother's eyes were screwed shut, his face contorted into a grimace of pain.

John turned his glare from the machines to one of the new doctors. "His stats are all fine His BP is a little high, but it usually is and why the hell is that in the drip?" He thudded the screen with his finger. "You know he was a cocaine addict and that can really damage him right? And you stupid idiots had the morphine on as low as possible. No wonder the machines are all over the place. Mycroft Holmes I severely suggest you get some competent doctors in here or I'll do it all myself."

As soon as everything had been adjusted and Sherlock was resting more comfortably, he found himself really looking at John and this time he was observing without the haze of overwrought emotion. There were deep lines of worry etched at the corners of John's eyes and his left hand was trembling. His limp was probably back as well. "John, I'll be okay."

The doctor nodded curtly, still feeling that he was the only one to blame for Sherlock's condition. John tried to move back, as if to step away and leave Sherlock be.

The detective apparently didn't like that idea so grabbed his hand. "Don't go. Not again. Please. I'm sorry."

Reaching back with his free hand, the doctor pulled up a chair and sat. He brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'll stay right here. Promise. Just rest, Love."

"Mmm," he murmured, closing his eyes.

Mycroft came in again just as Sherlock drifted back into sleep. "Is he alright? What did he say?"

John couldn't bring himself to look away from his boyfriend's face. "I think he believes I'll be here when he wakes up and that I love him, but he's so unsure of us himself, of me." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I didnt… he didn't." John sighed. "I didn't think about the consequences, didn't think through how reckless he would be as a result."

Mycroft drew up a chair, sitting by John's side and resting a hand on Sherlock's leg. "That's something we both failed at, I'm afraid. I should have never enlisted his help while he was so compromised."

"Did he tell you?"

"He wanted to. I should have made him."

"It was just a row. It shouldn't have been a big deal. Yes I was angry, but…" he sighed yet again. "I shouldn't have left him."

Mycroft shifted his gaze from his brother's face to John's. "Quite right, but I understand why you did it. We try to control our emotions, you and I. I try to banish them entirely, you try to eliminate the less attractive of them and we both fail miserably. Look at me and how I've fallen for Gregory, despite my best efforts."

John chuckled. "God, you just said we're alike. I'm not sure how to take that." He sighed. "But you didn't cause Greg to go out and get shot."

"No. I sent my brother to go and get shot instead."

"Would you two stop with the self recriminations? It's boring," Sherlock croaked without opening his eyes. "It was my own fault. I wasn't paying attention. My mind was elsewhere and I didn't deduce the trouble I was charging into. I also shouldn't have left Greg."

"Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus!" Greg stepped into the room, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Somebody write down the date.

Sherlock just admitted to making a mistake."

Now Sherlock's eyes opened and his gaze flickered between the two sitting men to the DI at the door. "Greg, I'm lying in a boring hospital bed because I got shot. I think that is a fairly big mistake."

Greg shrugged one shoulder. "I was just trying to lighten the mood. You have to admit it's pretty dark in here." He ploughed on. "I'm just glad you'll live."

"You won't have to live with the complaining," John pointed out.

The doctor was waiting for an argument about complaining but Sherlock was unusually quiet, he turned to look at the younger man who had a frown on his face. "But you will?" He asked quietly.

"Of course I will, you git. I told you I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock tugged on John's hand. "Lower these pointless rails and get up here with me," he demanded.

"Sherlock, I can't."

The detective's face fell.

"Oh, all right."

Sherlock grinned, but groaned as he tried to shift himself across the bed.

"Don't strain yourself, you muppet, I can fit in that poncy gap."

Sherlock pulled John's head to his chest, avoiding his own injury as he shifted the sling to the side. He couldn't resist kissing the top of his doctor's head. "You're an idiot he whispered."

John actually grinned for the first time after Sherlock called him that. "I know," he whispered. "But I'm your idiot."

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock1110 and sherlockian4evr are getting ready to celebrate their one year anniversary of writing together. For this special occasion, we are asking for your fic prompts. Let us know what you would like to read and maybe we'll pick yours!


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